


A lost art

by Christmasrose66



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 12:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14402121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christmasrose66/pseuds/Christmasrose66
Summary: Scully reflects at the end of a case, set after The lost art of forehead sweat





	A lost art

She was back in the office again. The same old room, dimly lit, and badly decorated. These days, the whole building has the air of a structure that ought to be condemned, which did nothing for workplace morale. At least down here, she didn't have to listen to complaints around the water-cooler. Mulder wouldn't have noticed if the place fell down around his ears, he could have carried on working anywhere, once he had the scent of a theory. It was just the two of them, down here, in the bowels of the building. If the place did fall down, they were probably in the safest location, she reflected wryly.  
At this particular point, she was on her own. It was early in the morning on a bitterly cold day, and the tiny office window afforded only a glimpse of dirty snow piled on the sidewalk above her. She was trying to write up a report on, well, what would she even call it? It was barely a case, a plea for help from a mentally ill former government worker. No crime committed, well, again, was there? Or wasn't there a crime? Maybe she should ask Skinner how he would like the events of the previous few days to be categorised, or if he would like them to be documented at all. Several of the cases they had worked on, had mysteriously failed to make it into the official record, some of them before she had even put pen to paper, others that had somehow slipped into the wastepaper basket in Skinner's office. She felt that the report she was working on right now, was only good for the trash, she couldn't force the events to conform to any rational argument. She remembered writing reports as a student, the results of experiments meticulously recorded, an abstract, an experimental method, results, and a conclusion, all neatly hanging together, margins of error and statistical probability clearly defined. Nothing that she had worked on, in all her years on the X-files, could be described quite so easily.


End file.
